Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle (4 page)

“Evening, Cedric,” all on the benches chorused.

“Missed the landing of the Vikings, did I? Must’ve been a thrill to see! What’s this mess?” He raised his shoes in turn, looking at the sticky soles.

“Da says the Viking is pillaging,” Wee Gordie offered.

“Did he now?” Doc set his bag on the counter and glanced down. “Och—evening, B.A. Dinna see you sitting there. So, what’s wrong with your feller? Was led to believe he’s at death’s door. Seems healthy to me. Back, Dudley, or I’ll talk the Marys into neutering you next time they bring you for shots.”

“Make him stop.” B.A. blushed as she fought arousal, legions of goosebumps and rising anger.

“Our B.A. gave him PVC.” Angus shook his finger. “Dunna ken what she’s doing to him with the finger. They never showed that part on telly.”

“Silly woman ain’t doing it right,” Innis huffed.

“Dinna tell
Herself
that—she’s a Montgomerie.” Doc pulled his stethoscope out of his kit. “You ken Montgomeries never listen to anyone.”

“Oh aye,” the chorus agreed, with Innis adding, “Might also be that our lass went to school in the colonies. Them Yank ways corrupted her.”

All heads bobbed in solemn reflection. “‘Tis true, ‘tis true.”

“The tap on his noggin knocked the invader silly buggers, eh?” Michael commented.

“Not too scrambled, I’d say. He’s certainly taken to our lass—at least to her finger,” Doc said, winking at the bench.

Frowning, B.A. yanked it from Desmond’s mouth with a loud pop. “Bloody panther,” she grumbled. “I
told
them I needed to count my fingers.”

“Come on, B.A., let’s have a peek at your lad. A bump to the noggin can be a sticky wicket. I need to look into his eyes, make sure they’re normal. You dunna want the other Vikings to go berserker if this one expires ‘cause you had him down on the floor wallowing him around and poking him with your finger.”

At the edge of his vision, Desmond noticed a man in a skirt—or a woman with big feet and seriously ugly legs—reaching for him. His mind struggled to focus. Over the years, he’d experienced intense dreams about B.A. Montgomerie, but never one this bizarre: slightly wacky, a near-death experience, a cross between
Braveheart
and
Cold Comfort Farm
.

Gazing at B.A., Desmond tried to differentiate nightmarish fantasy from reality. She was so stunning. Petulantly looking at her finger, those whisky-colored eyes were unfocused, dreamy. Her mouth was wet from his kisses.

His vision swirled. Some nonsense was said about looking into his eyes. Silly nonsense. He brushed the intruder’s comments from his mind. If he could touch B.A. in his dream, he damn well didn’t want a woman with big feet intruding.

His eyes targeted the woman so heartbreakingly beautiful before him. He wanted to hold her, to feel her heart beat against his, to caress her golden hair. Leaning forward to kiss that lush mouth, he saw her long black lashes go wide. As if shaking free of a trance, she let forth with an ear-piercing scream that pierced his brain like a thousand red-hot needles. The high-pitched note summoned utter catastrophe.

B.A.‘s howl provoked The Cat Dudley to join her, creating an off-key harmony. The silly beast jumped onto the middle of Desmond’s back, claws sinking into his flesh. Mershan’s head snapped up, colliding hard with Doc’s pointy chin at the same time Doc stepped on a stray jawbreaker. The older man’s foot went high above his shoulders, his kilt swirling about his hips.

“That answers the question of what a Scotsman wears under there,” Willie sniggered.

Callum, Willie, Innis, Ian, Angus, Michael, Gordon, Wee Gordie and Robbie gawked, poking each other with their elbows, as they eyed the two men sprawled over B.A. she fought the inclination to take the broom to them.

Flexing his paws at the small of the insensate Desmond’s back, Dudley settled down to take a nap.

Angus admonished, “B.A., you shameless hussy, look what you did! If Sean had listened to me and beaten you regularly, none of this’d be happening. Being a Montgomerie, did he listen?”

“Angus, you ken Montgomeries never listen to anyone,” Innis reiterated, with a twinkle in his brown eyes.” Ashamed you should be, B.A. Not enough to kill the Outlander again, you go and murder poor Doc as well. What are we supposed to do come time to worm the sheep?”

Scathing retorts ran through B.A.‘s mind. But, tongue-tied from being kissed senseless, she’d futz up delivery, giving the eegits another giggle at her expense. That annoyance paled compared to how furious she was at Mershan for making her feel things she’d kept locked away all these years. Her body vibrated—one aching keen of need—and if she wasn’t pinned beneath two deadweights, she’d have kicked him for it!

“Blethering pelicans! Get… them… off… me!” B.A. shoved at Mershan’s shoulders. He was limp. With Doc draped over his legs, she was unable to extricate herself, though Dudley seemed content with the situation.

Robbie continued the teasing. “Let’s consider, lass. With Doc cold-cocked, we blethering pelicans hesitate to do anything to make this mess you created worse. Doc might not be much—being a critter doctor and all—but he’s the only medical-type person we have on the isle. Any of you ken what to do for a concussion?”

All eyes swept to the others, then back to her, followed by murmurs of, “No.”

Innis leaned forward. “What’s that you’re muttering, B.A.? Speak up, my hearing ain’t what it used to be.”

Callum mimed a straight face. “Best you not hear our B.A. behaving unladylike. Ashamed The Montgomerie’d be, lass, you murdering people and cussing a blue streak.”

Angus clucked his tongue and shook his finger. “What our lass needs is a braw lad to take her in hand, to stop these ball-ups.”

“Aye,” echoed the glee club. “That’s what she needs.”

B.A.‘s eyes locked on Michael, being the nearest. “If you dunna get them off me—”

“You’ll what?” he taunted. “A lass in your position should be more polite. Like, saying
please
. It’s them bloody Yank ways coming out in you.”

“Michael, if I get my hands on you—”

He waggled a finger, imitating Angus. “Careful, lass.”

Innis chimed, “You’re wasting breath, cautioning
Herself
. Montgomeries never listen.”

A feral growl began deep within B.A. as she shoved with all her might. Her snarl shifted into a stream of Gaelic curses when she couldn’t budge either man.

Eyes wide, Wee Gordie gasped, “What she said! Mum’d wash your mouth out with soap, B.A.!”

Michael grinned. “Lass, you’re not going anywhere unless we hear the secret word.” He put his hand to his ear, waiting for her to beg.

B.A. grabbed at the long strands of his hair with her free hand. Michael jerked back. “No male on this isle is daft

enough to get close when you’ve a mad on. You’re a Montgomerie after all. What’s that you say, lass? By chance did I hear…?”

B.A. closed her eyes, and the word came out on another big cat growl: “Please!”

Chapter 3

“Here?” B.A. gasped, hurriedly tying the sash on her robe.

She’d barely peeled off her sticky clothes when a car had pulled up in her driveway. Never would she have expected
this
.

She stared them down—or tried to—but the worms avoided eye contact. In the lead was Callum, next stood Wulfgar, the tallest Viking, with Desmond the Panther flung over one shoulder. Behind them came Michael carrying Mershan’s flight bag and jacket with the reverence Smeagol would The One Ring. Callum muscled past B.A. and into the empty living room, Wulfgar the Moving Mountain trailing in his wake.

B.A. tried to stare him down, too. It was hard when she had to look up at him. Did one stare a person up?
Sheesh,
B.A. grumbled to herself, she’d get a crick in her neck maintaining eye contact with the Norseman.

“I dunna have a place for him.” She stomped her foot. Michael filed past, ignoring her, then Robbie, Angus, Innis and Ian the Horseman’s brother, all heading with uncanny accuracy upstairs and straight to her bedroom—the only bedroom currently with a bed.

She went to close the door, but The Cat Dudley—their caboose—bounded up the stairs. Accidentally getting hairs of his tail caught in the door, he squalled and hissed as if she’d crippled him for life. Bouncing sideways, he threatened to bite her. In defense she picked up an umbrella from the stand, opening and closing it rapidly to shoo him. The feline wasn’t impressed. She adored moggies, but Dudley wasn’t remotely like a cat, was closer to Freddy Krueger in a fur suit.

“‘Tis unlucky to open a brolly inside, lass.” Angus and his cane joined the procession up the stairs. “You’ve caused trouble enough for one day, trying to kill poor Doc and this Viking feller. Now you want to murder the moggie, too? The Marys won’t like you tormenting their kitty.”

“Me tormenting
him?
Out, kitty. I won’t have you shred another duvet with your tiny daggers. You ruined my last one.”
Too late,
she thought. Dudley had bounded up the stairs to follow his new pal.

Rushing after the cat, she forced her way to the bedroom.

Unlike the rest of the two-story thatched house, this room was furnished. Panes of pink-veined glass covered the walk-in closet doors, reflecting the perfection of B.A.‘s design. White carpet ran wall to wall, showcasing the George HI platform bed with wooden tester refinished in antique white. No hint of plaid anywhere.

She loved tartan, but had enough up at the castle. Pulled back to the bedposts, the curtains along the canopy matched the blush-pink duvet. A sensual room designed for a woman’s taste, B.A. intended Rose Cottage to be Falgannon’s honeymoon lodge. She’d live here only until renovations were completed to Lady Cottage in the castle.

“Stand aside, lass.” Michael yanked back the comforter as they placed Desmond down.

“Eegit, you can’t dump him here,” she fumed.

“Stand aside, lass.” Callum pulled off Desmond’s short boots. “You half kill the man, you can bloody well tend him for the night.”

“Ever suffer nosebleeds, B.A., from the high altitude of this parade ground you call a bed?” Michael bounced on it, testing its firmness. “All this pink gives me insulin problems, like I’ve overdosed on candy floss. The mattress is verra bonnie though—I like the pillow-tuft top.”

“Why can’t Doc care for him?” She edged toward the window, reluctant to be nearer The Panther Desmond.

“Some daft lass went and coldcocked Doc. We took him to the Marys and propped him up on the rollaway bed with an ice pack on his pointy chin.” Ian, one of the Fraser twins, took her hand and placed an aspirin bottle in it. “No alcohol or pain pills—just these. Cold compresses for the goose egg. Wake him every two hours and look into his eyes, lass. If his pupils get squirrelly or he gets a pain in the tum like he might blaw, give a ring.”

“On
what?
MacGyver of the East dinna fix the blower.” B.A. stood helpless while the group filed out—fled, the cowards—leaving The Panther dozing on her satin sheets.

The room felt smaller, stifling because of his presence.

She started after Ian, but a mountain of flesh blocked her path. Her eyes at nipple level, they traveled up his frame to a chiseled face and ice blue eyes. She wondered what Wulfgar thought of her nutty islanders.

“This is his,” he rumbled, shoving a leather laptop case at her. “I’ll bring the rest in the morning.”

“Rest? What rest? He’ll be leaving come morn.”

Wulfgar shook his head. “Desmond isn’t going anywhere until he finishes what he came to do.”

Over my dead body,
B.A. vowed. The Viking horde and their shape-shifting panther leader could decamp from her island come morning. Oh gor, this was Monday; the ferry wouldn’t run again until Thursday. She was stuck with the Vikings until then.

Putting the laptop on the dresser, she followed, determined to have it out with them. “Why not leave him at The Hanged Man?” she called to their retreating backs.

“No can do, lass.” Robbie leaned on the newel post, waiting for her. “A call came from Hamish the Lighthouse on the radio. A cruiser is fetching the three Yank lasses over. They’d detoured to Iona to sightsee. That’s why they missed the ferry. The Hanged Man will be full shortly, leaving only the garret designed for Hobbits. I took in Dennis, the other Viking, and Wulfgar’s bunking with Callum.”

“Surely, one of you can stay here then?”

Ian smiled. “‘Tis a chaperone you’d be wanting? The Cat Dudley volunteered.”

“A chaperone’s needed for this Desmond feller,” Angus chortled, “the way our B.A. had him on the floor wallowing him.”

“‘Tis true,” several of them agreed.

Black-headed, blue-eyed Ian tweaked the faint cleft in her chin, jerking back as she slapped at his hand. “Mind, B.A., no wallowing your Viking until he wakes up.”

“You’re wasting breath, laddie. She’s a Montgomerie. You ken they never listen,” Angus reminded from the front walkway.

“Pelicans,” she snarled to Ian’s and Michael’s backs. “Where am I going to sleep? I dunna have furniture for the house yet, just the bedroom and kitchen—as you bloody well ken.”

Ian turned around on the porch. Fog swirled about him, so thick it swallowed up the other traitors. She heard car doors slamming as they piled into the silver Range Rover.

“There’s room enough on your bloody parade ground, Florence Nightingale. He’d have to be a sprinter to catch you. If he gets frisky, sic the cat on him.” He winked and then vanished.

Speechless, B.A. watched the Rover’s lights show up in the mist, slightly disembodied since the silver car blended with the gray fog. Something brushed against her. She glanced down to see Dudley weaving around her legs. “Some chaperone. You
like
The Bloody Panther! Go home to the Marys, I’m sure they wonder where you are.”

Dudley sniffed at her, then loped back up the stairs.

Oh, great! She had two un-neutered males upstairs.

Carrying the tray into the bedroom, B.A. set it on the nightstand. The Panther Desmond hadn’t moved. She seethed over their foisting him off on her, but anger shifted to concern. Surely, this was too long for him to be unconscious.

She hesitated before sitting on the edge of the bed, female skittishness pulsing in her blood. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself to touch him, then fought the instinct to jerk back due to the heat his body radiated. Not fever—high-metabolism men came blessed with it, while women shivered, counted calories and struggled not to turn into Goodyear Blimps.

Her hands trembled. It’d been so long since she touched any man outside her brothers and a few islanders—who were one extended pack of siblings. So long since shed wanted to.

She checked his clothes for glass shards, finding none. His raven-black hair lay in waves and ringlets so thick it was hard to tell if the skin was broken where he’d hit his skull. She ran her fingers through the curls.
Only to check the lump,
she told herself. The knot felt soft, but no blood. Leaning back, she spotted streaks on the back of his white silk shirt.

“Maniac cat.” She glanced around for the wee beastie.

As if conjured, Dudley popped up on the bed and began kneading the duvet beside Desmond. She glared at the stupid feline. Glared at the man. No way around it. The shirt would have to come off so the scratches could be cleansed.

For a sweet second she considered taking pinking-shears up the middle of that Armani silk, as payback for those devastating kisses. For awakening that grinding hunger within her. Conscience whispered it was the coward’s way. Well, she was no bloody chicken—she’d rather not touch him any more than necessary.

“Who knows, Vikings might have cooties,” she told the cat.

Rolling him over, B.A.‘s fingers shook as she undid the studs and tugged the shirttails from his slacks. Barely able to draw breath, she stared at his chest. The man was beautiful. His muscles were sleekly defined in a well-maintained pantherlike way; the conformation of his shoulders, arms and upper torso was, to her taste, perfect.

Another plus—he wasn’t hairy. Men with chests that looked as if someone Crazy-glued a French Poodle there gave her the willies. He had a dusting of hair on his breastbone, then the dark line traveled down to his insy bellybutton and thickened into an arrow below.

“Mercy,” she said on a sigh.

She placed a hand on his stomach and trailed it up to his heart.
Checking his pulse,
she lied to herself. B.A.
wanted
to touch him. For the first time in years she yearned to stroke warm male flesh, to savor unyielding muscles under her hand. Heat roared through her as she recalled how he tasted—that slow sensual slide of his tongue in her mouth. Desire more than she could bear, she bit back a groan.

Get a grip,
Angel B.A. screamed,
you’ll have a bloody orgasm just touching the man!
Ignoring her tiny guiding conscience, she flexed her fingers, indulging in the tactile sensuality. After all, The Panther was out cold and had no idea how she enjoyed petting him.

The heartbeat jolted, startling B.A. Strong and rapid, it pounded under her hand.

Desmond blinked, then glanced about the room. The one Scot had been right. Pink! Not bad like Pepto, still enough to give him the heebie-jeebies. The only hue worse was yellow. Something about pink and yellow were nails on a blackboard to men. Find one wearing either color b y choice and you could bet he wasn’t straight!

Focusing on the lovely B.A., he saw guilt flood her face. B.A. Montgomerie had her wicked way with him while she believed him unconscious.

Talk about Providence! Suppressing a grin, Desmond wondered why the Scots dropped him in the middle of B.A.‘s bed. Since it furthered his plans, he wouldn’t look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth.

Aware of the Scots’ scheming, he’d been conscious as Wulf hauled him inside her house. Seeing her chin tilted in that lady of the manor mien—even from the upside-down position—Desmond had figured she’d put up resistance if he were awake, so he’d played possum.

His head throbbed, but the pain was a small price. He’d plot his next move soon. For the present, he was content to play patient to B.A.‘s angel of mercy. He enjoyed her rolling him over onto his back and was tempted to return the favor.

Sitting up set fireworks off inside his skull. “My head—”

Desmond considered his memories. Some made no sense, a mishmash of pain, angels, Viking raiders, giant gum-ball machines attacking him—and a wild sexual fantasy about Sean Montgomerie’s granddaughter.
The woman who’d haunted his dreams for years.
Then, men in skirts waltzed through his mind. He closed his eyes against rising nausea.

“Och, dunna go to sleep. I need to look into your eyes.”

Look into his eyes
was part of the Benny Hill nightmare buzzing inside his skull. She scooted closer in a small bounce, intensifying his agony. He bit back a groan.

Desmond felt sandpaper scraping his face. Fearing what could be on the end of that tongue, he risked peeking. Two sets of amber eyes blinked at him—B.A.‘s and, oh yeah, that nutty cat.

“Your cat has eyes like you.” Reaching up, he patted the kitty on the head. Never much of a cat person, he found this one oddly charming. “What’s her name?”

“His
name’s The Cat Dudley,” she corrected, “and he’s not my cat.”

“Hi, Dudley.” The puss pushed against his fingers, demanding attention. “So affectionate, I thought it a female.”

She sniggered. “His name isn’t Dudley. It’s
The Cat
Dudley. Scotland’s other monster. Not as well kenned as Nessie, but Nessie had a head start.”

“Maybe she’s not a cat person, eh, Dudley?”

The silly feline meowed, his purr kicking into overdrive. Flopping over, he curled into the curve of Desmond’s arm, then turned his head backward in one of those only-cats-can-do moves, and looked at him upside down. my hero was in the kitty’s amber eyes.

“Shoo, Dudley, I need to get him to take off that shirt.”

Desmond’s mouth quirked up at one corner.
“You
called him Dudley. Why did you name your kitty
The Cat
Dudley?”

“He’s not my cat. The Marys own the demon spawn, named for a beau the twins had in their teens.” B.A. pushed the limp moggie away and took Desmond’s upper arms to help him up.

Instead of being shaky and weak, he sprang at her, invaded her space. Nose-to-nose with her, his warm breath fanned her face.

“You mentioned looking into my eyes?” he asked. His voice was husky.

Clearly lightheaded, unable to draw air, B.A. jerked back before leaning into him. “Aye, they said look into them, watch for changes.”

“You fear a concussion.” He put a hand on either side of her lap and leaned closer. “Stare into my pupils. They should be the same. If one’s dilated, it’s a warning sign.”

Desmond saw B.A.‘s dazed reaction to his nearness, to the heat off his body. In the same measure, her female scent clouded his brain. Her small mouth was full and faintly parted—a punch to his gut. He resisted the temptation to close the last inch between them and cover her mouth with his, kiss her long and hard just to see the stunned look on her face.